


Just Like The Movies

by nondeducible



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Romance, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 11:04:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nondeducible/pseuds/nondeducible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Romantic comedies are not all they're made out to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like The Movies

**Author's Note:**

> About a thousand years ago I asked my followers for fic prompts to celebrate getting 100 followers. two-of-us-againts-the-world asked for John and Sherlock being "too cute to exist".
> 
> Not beta'd so all mistakes are my own. Sorry.

It starts with Sherlock making dinner. It’s a soup and it’s bright blue.

“What’s in it?” John asks. He peers into pot and sniffs the food carefully, his belly rumbling appreciatively.

“Leeks, celery, garlic, potatoes and chicken stock,” Sherlock replies as he takes out soup bowls from one of the cupboards.

“Why blue?” John asks for the third time since coming home. He dips a spoon into the soup but Sherlock grabs it before John can bring it anywhere near his mouth.

“It’s not finished yet,” Sherlock huffs. “And it’s blue because that’s what the recipe said.”

“That’s surprisingly tasty,” John says after eating his first spoonful of the blue concoction. Sherlock twirls his spoon idly and says nothing. They eat the rest of the food in silence.

-

A few days later John stays behind at work to help out a colleague. It’s just as well, really, as he doesn’t particularly want to go out into the pouring rain, having left his umbrella at home. Almost an hour after his shift ends he finally ventures outside and nearly bumps into Sherlock when exiting the building.

“Sherlock? What are you doing here? Are you..?” John doesn’t finish the sentence as he takes in Sherlock’s appearance. The detective is completely soaked, his wet shirt and trousers clinging to his lean body, his coat and jacket nowhere in sight. His curls are plastered to his face, lips nearly blue and his entire body is shaking.

“J-John, I-I-I h-had to a-a-ask...“ Sherlock stammers through clenched teeth. John takes his coat off and drapes it around the detective’s shaking shoulders.

“You utter idiot,” John mutters. “You couldn’t wait until I got home? How long have been waiting out here?” He asks as he flags down a cab. It takes him several tries to get one to stop but as soon as he succeeds he shoves Sherlock inside and tells the driver to get them to Baker Street as quickly as possible.

“A-an ho-hour,” Sherlock is shivering so violently he nearly falls off his seat. John manhandles him into a fierce hug and rubs his back and arms.

“You’re a git,” John mutters under his breath loud enough for Sherlock to hear. Sherlock says nothing for the rest of the day.

-

John awakes to the sounds of violin drifting in through the open bedroom window. It sounds angry and exactly like something Sherlock might play to wake him up.

John rubs the sleep out his eyes and slowly rolls out of bed, grimly accepting another sleepless night ahead of him. He glances at the bedside clock; it cheerfully displays 2.30 in the morning. He walks to the window and opens it fully. He takes a deep, calming breath and braces himself for another late night argument with his flatmate.

John leans out of his window to see Sherlock, dressed in his suit, standing on the pavement outside the front door of 221. He stops screeching on his violin as soon as he spots John.

"Ah, John, you're finally awake. Excellent," Sherlock smiles up at John. He immediately starts playing again, this time something much more melodic and soothing.

"Sherlock, what are you--" John stops mid-sentence when he notices a police car coming round the corner. "Oh, god," John groans. The neighbours definitely weren't happy with Sherlock's atonal violin practice.

John quickly puts on his dressing gown and runs downstairs, hoping to get to Sherlock before the police. As he opens the front door he sees one of the officers carefully approaching Sherlock, who seems oblivious to the commotion around him and continues playing with his eyes closed.

"Sir, could you--"

"Sherlock! Wake up!" John interrupts the police officer. Sherlock stops playing and looks at John quizzically. John strides quickly towards him and hopes Sherlock doesn't try to be too difficult. "Wake up, you've been sleepwalking again!"

A second policeman gets out of the car and both of them look at John and Sherlock uncertainly. "Sir, please put your violin down," the first one says. Sherlock remains silent and stares vacantly at John, obviously playing along with his plan.

"I'm really sorry, officers, my flatmate sleepwalks sometimes," John smiles apologetically and carefully takes out the violin and the bow out of Sherlock's hands. "I'm a doctor, I can take care of him."

"Sir, the neighbours were complaining--"

"Yes, yes, I know, he woke me up too," John interrupts the second policeman. "I'm really sorry about this," John says as he gently grips Sherlock's elbow. "Sherlock," he says softly, "we need to go inside now."

Sherlock turns to look at John and nods slowly.

"I’ll take it from here, officers, sorry to have bothered you.”

The police officers nod at John, get into their car and drive away. As soon as they’re gone John shoves Sherlock into 221 and locks the front door behind them. He marches upstairs to their flat and straight into the kitchen, Sherlock trailing behind him.

“While your assistance is appreciated I would have handled th--“

“Sherlock,” John says as he holds up his hand. He carefully puts the violin and bow down on the kitchen table and doesn’t look up at Sherlock as he continues. “Not interested in whatever experiment you were conducting this time.”

“John, I wasn’t--“

“Go to bed, Sherlock,” John sighs. Sherlock turns on his heel and stomps into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He doesn’t speak to John for two days.

-

It’s a Sunday, they don’t have a case and London is trying to drown itself in rain. Neither John nor Sherlock bother with changing out of their pyjamas and dressing gowns, and spend most of the day sitting on the sofa and watching telly.

John flips the channels idly, ignoring Sherlock’s huffs of protest.

“Wow, I haven’t watched this since I was a kid,” John says when he comes across an old zombie film. Sherlock groans. “Oi, shut up. I liked this kind of stuff when I was growing up.”

Sherlock huffs again but remains silent for the rest of the film, engrossing himself instead in a medical journal he found under the sofa.

“In the extremely unlikely event of a zombie apocalypse I would attempt rescuing you should we become separated,” Sherlock says that evening over Chinese takeaway.

“With your track record of getting into trouble I would assume you’d be the one in need of rescuing,” John smirks, not looking up from his food. “But the sentiment is appreciated.”

Sherlock scowls and eats the rest of his meal in silence.

-

Sherlock stomps into the kitchen just as John is reaching for the kettle to make tea, throwing a dry twig at John. John catches it and looks at Sherlock quizzically.

“A case?” John asks with hope in his voice.

“No,” Sherlock answers curtly and starts pacing the kitchen.

“What do you need a dead twig for?” John asks looking down at said twig and twirling it between his fingers.

“It’s not a dead twig, John,” Sherlock says impatiently and continues to pace the kitchen. “As usual you see but do not observe,” he mutters to himself. “Viscum album, of the family Santalaceae in the order Santalal, an obligate hemi-parasitic plant, native to Great Britain and most of Europe. The white berries are poisonous, don’t eat them,” Sherlock rattles off without a pause for breath.

John glances at the plant in his hands, and indeed there are a few white blobs still attached to it. He looks back up at Sherlock who stops his pacing and stands directly in front of John. John blinks at him.

“Oh, for the love of...” Sherlock snatches the twig from John’s hands and holds it above their heads. “Mistletoe, John. Do I need to spell out its significance? I have been patient with you, I really have, going through all of these frankly ridiculous rituals that are supposedly considered romantic. I expect this kind of behaviour from other people but you... I expected a certain level of intelligence and observational skills from a man who spends most of his time around a detective, and someone who also identifies as a soldier and a doctor. This has gone far enough, John, you must know what the accepted ritual is, even though it's nowhere near Christm--,” Sherlock is interrupted mid-rant by John kissing him.

Sherlock keeps his eyes open throughout the kiss and frowns at John’s blissful expression.

“You knew,” Sherlock mumbles accusingly against John’s lips. John grins mischievously and shuts him up with another kiss. They do not stay silent for long.


End file.
